A Cause Worth Everything
by Quothia
Summary: Tom Riddle is the heir of Slytherin. It is his job to rid Hogwarts of the Muggle scum that have polluted it for so long. But, when faced with the prospect of something that may matter to him even more, he is thrown into turmoil.


She was not a person he could be seen to mix with. Merlin, there was him: a gifted, good-looking Slytherin prefect. Then there was she: small, scrawny and bookish with ridiculous horn-rimmed glasses and sallow skin. They were from different worlds.

She was the type who you stuck your foot out at in the corridor and hoped she tripped over it just so you could watch her squeal in horror as ink flooded over her Transfiguration book. She was the one you sought out to practice your new shoe-lace tying hex and laugh as she stood up unawares and toppled right back over again. She was the pathetic, pitiful little thing you levitated pitchers of pumpkin juice over at breakfast. In short, she was not someone and self-respecting person would associate with.

Especially not him. He was bright. He was smart. He was brilliant.

"You're destined for great things, Tom," the teachers would tell him. Him, well, he had plans of his own, plans that went far beyond the realms of the things dear Professor Slughorn pictured for him. He knew, at least, that there was no Ministry of Magic in his future. No, he had greater things in mind for himself than that. He would be great someday and have loyal followers behind him ready to fight his cause and get rid of all this dirty blood that polluted the magical world.

Did he mention that she was a Mudblood?

Yes, she was. A filthy, good-for-nothing Mudblood; not fit even to walk these same walls as him or eat at the same table as those of pure blood. Not that he was actually, technically, a pureblood himself but this was of little matter. His worthless father was not a part of him. He had no father and had not for a long time. That insignificant Muggle who had contributed to his conception was no family of his. No, as soon as he had left his mother for dead he had lost his right to be called father. One day he would have his revenge; not only on that despicable man but upon all the detestable Muggles, Mudbloods and Blood-Traitors that dares contaminate his beautiful, magical world.

_And her too? _Came a small, shrewd voice from within him. _Is she to be destroyed as well? _Of course. Of course she would be removed just like all the other impure ones who walk these halls. He was the heir of Slytherin, he was the chosen one for this task. He would remove every single little Mudblood from Hogwarts if it was the last thing he did. And why should she be any different? What made her so special?

Sure, when she looked at him he felt his heart beat a little faster and yes, when her hand had brushed up against his that time she had handed him the shears in Herbology all other thoughts had seemed to drop out of his brilliant mind. But what did it really matter if he found her face popping into his head at random moments of the days or that, when he watched her giving answers to questions in class (questions that he could have answered but didn't because looking at her seemed to take up his whole self) he saw her lips form the words and found himself wondering, just for a second, what their softness would feel like if they swept across his own quick, smart mouth.

But really, that meant nothing at all. He was sure that if he asked anyone else, they might say that when they closed their eyes in their dormitories at night, they saw a small little Muggle-born girl with flyaway brown hair and horn-rimmed glasses framing her blue eyes, seemingly tattooed onto the pink of their eyelids. Oh, God, he needed to get a grip on himself. He needed to find himself in a world that had suddenly filled unequivocally with just, simply _her. _

So he did not ask the other Slytherins if their thought too were filled with sweet little Mudblood Ravenclaw girls or if their sleep was interrupted by doubts and uncertainties of if what they had chosen to base their lives on might all be thrown away. He did not ask them because he was sure it meant nothing.

He was Tom Marvolo Riddle, soon to be Lord Voldemort, the greatest and most feared wizard ever known who would turn the world upside-down with his new and revolutionary vision and made it a better place for the likes of him to live in. Without the likes of her. Without little things like her who manipulated his mind and tried to draw him away from his destiny. Without stupid little girls who moped around the place and were the laughing stock of the whole school and whom he could not get his mind away from. She was nothing and he was everything. She had to go.

But what if she didn't? What if he kept her with him? What if he told her about how he felt, how she made him _feel _for the first time? How he watched her from a distance and felt anger bubble inside him every time the likes of Olive Hornby tormented her. How she had become so much more for him than just another impure blot in the magical world. How he hated himself for even giving her a second look.

Maybe he could save her. Just this one girl. What difference, after all, in the grand scheme of things, would she make? He could keep her, preserve her, and make sure she came to no harm. He could make an exception, surely, in this one case. Certainly, after all, this girl had magical power. Why, she had the power to hold his blackened, shrivelled heart in her hand even though she had never even talked to him properly, just rushed by him quickly with eyes downcast and books in her arms, running away from some tormentor or other. That was some power, after all and maybe, because of that, he could justify saving her. In any case, he did love her.

Love! Had he honestly just thought that? Had he, Tom Riddle, just considered the possibility that he might love? No. No. NO! He did not love. He did not care. He would kill her right now if he could. She meant nothing to him. Nothing at all. This feeling inside him was as shallow as a pensive and as fleeting as the changing seasons. It was not love because Lord Voldemort did not feel love. There was no pity inside of him and no mercy or affection. And not love. Above all, certainly no love. Love could destroy a person. It could make them do things they would regret forever. Love made people weak and he could not risk that. For what he had to do, he needed to be strong.

Well, this was his test. This girl was his test and he must prove to himself that the cause he was fighting went deeper than and superficial feeling he might have toward a girl. He knew what he had to do and the thought of it tore at his mind and burned at his heart. She had to go, and he knew it. It was the only way, the greatest sacrifice he could make. Once he had done this there would be no turning back.

The opportunity presented itself soon enough. A few days later, Myrtle came into the Great Hall at breakfast wearing a pair of even thicker, rounder spectacles and clutching in her arms a pile of heavy dusty volumes. Her hair was tied back from her face in two long, thick braids fastened with ribbons.

"Oi, Myrtle, lets have a look at those new specs then." The voice of Olive Hornby travelled across the Great Hall from the Slytherin table. "They new?"

The small Ravenclaw girl nodded briefly and made to sit down. She clearly didn't want to have to talk to Olive Hornby for a moment longer than was necessary. In fact, one could tell from the pinkness creeping into her face and the way her hands were trembling as she set down her books and tried to pour herself a glass of pumpkin juice, that she was downright terrified.

There was a smirk on Olive Hornby's face as she got up from the table and made her way over to the cowering girl flanked by two large, brutish looking Slytherin girls. The rest of the Ravenclaw table watched, entranced as Olive stood directly behind Myrtle watched her as she struggled with the huge pitcher of juice. Not one of them made a move to comfort Myrtle who was obviously panicking greatly or to stop Olive's method of intimidation. In truth, they didn't really care what happened to this scrawny little fourth year and viewed the imminent performance as a source of entertainment.

"Let's see them then, Moany," Olive said, plucking Myrtle's spectacles from her nose and examining them.

"Bit thick aren't they, Moany, you blind or something?" There were guffaws from the two burly girls standing next to Olive. Myrtle let and a small, squeaking noise that nobody could quite make out.

"What was that?" asked Olive Hornby mockingly. "You'll have to speak up or were your vocal cords damaged in the same accident as your eyes?" More laughter.

"I said no," whispered Myrtle, looking into her lap. "I'm not blind."

"Then prove it," Olive hissed, and she tossed the glasses to one of the huge Slytherin girls. "You pour that pumpkin juice without the specs and then I just might be able to persuade Vanessa here to give them back to you." The girl called Vanessa placed the glasses on her face and started making grotesque faces.

Myrtle looked up from her lap and seemed to decide that, of all the things Olive could have made her do, pouring pumpkin juice seemed like an easy way out. So, hands still trembling uncontrollably, she reached for the pitcher and lifted it up. For a moment, it seemed like she would manage it but then her thin arm seemed to buckle which was not surprising really, seeing as the pitcher was at least half that tiny girl's size. Pumpkin juice slopped onto the table and down the front of her robes. The Slytherins and Ravenclaws and even a few passing Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors burst into raucous laughter. Myrtle covered her head with her hands and made to run out the hall.

"Hey, Moany, you forget your specs," called Olive and Myrtle was forced to double back on herself and retrieve them from under to table were Vanessa had dropped them before rushing out the Great Hall once more and collapsing in a heap on the foot of the stairs leading out of the Entrance Hall.

This was his chance. Tom slid out of his chair at the Slytherin table and followed Myrtle as she ran and eventually slumped over on the stair and wept. As silently as he could, Tom approached and sat down next to the sobbing girl and placed a hand reassuringly onto her shoulder.

"It's all right," he soothed. "That Hornby girl way out of line. I'll give her a talking to later, don't you worry." Myrtle raised her head from her hands and looked at him in shocked thanks. Her brilliant blue eyes seemed to cut through Tom's heart like a dagger and her face, stained with pearly tears, was beautiful and delicate. But he stiffened his resolve. He had to do this.

"You'd do that?" the girl asked. "You'd really do that for me, Tom?" He hadn't realised she knew his name and hearing the detested syllable of his father's title on her lips almost made him like it. As she spoke it, it sounded special. Precious. Tom. He wished she'd say it again.

"Course I will," he replied. "Now you go and clean yourself up a bit. There's a bathroom up on the third floor that nobody ever goes in. You'll get some privacy there."

"Thanks, Tom," she whispered, and smiled at him waterly as she rose and made her way up the stairs still sniffing and wiping her eyes on her sleeve.

Tom waited only for a few moments before following. He had done this so many times before that he knew the process backwards. Go to the bathroom, order the Chamber to open in Parseltongue, tell the snake what he needed it to do and watch gleefully as another worthless Mudblood became a victim and hope, this time, for a death.

But there was no joy this time as he began the slow walk to the entrance to the chamber. There was no excitement coursing through his veins as he approached his destiny. No, this time was different. He did not think he could bear to watch the life leave this pretty little girl's eyes or see the fear flicker across her face as the bright yellow eyed of the Basilisk came into her view. Her pain was his pain and he could hot stand it.

It had to be done though; this was a cause that was so much bigger than him or than any mortal affection. Taking this step would mean proving himself worthy. It would mean making the ultimate sacrifice and finally making up for the fact that his own blood could not be totally pure. The death of this girl, the only person who had ever made him feel, would purify him any ultimately mean that he could take charge of the great task that lay ahead of him. He had to do it. There was not choice.

As Tom Riddle reached the bathroom and pressed his ear up against the wall to hear the now gentle sobs coming from inside it he realised: this was it. This is the final leap. The last chance he had to change his mind and alter the course of his life. And he had made his decision. As he took a deep, rattling breath and pushed to door of the bathroom open, Tom Riddle knew that he had chosen the path his life would take and now, in this moment, there was no turning back.


End file.
